1
The wild ju-ju woman stroked her violin. Her black Creole hair, spun into a hot tangle, shone blue beneath the glare of the naked bulb. She was looking absently down the hall from which you could ease out of situations, obligations, and the building itself. You exited into Dead Cat Alley, a pathway to a fresh start, moonlight permitting. When you enter the alley you cannot tell exactly what lies at the end. But once you have taken your first naive steps into the gloom, things ahead appear promising. Dead Cat is not paved. It simply leads you to the back door of the Inferno Bar, and situations.
The Witch was communicating. Her violin sobbed ancient laments that bore traces of Spain, Morocco and the Louisianna bayou. Our eyes would not meet.
Leave, she was saying. Leave this place.
Dante brought me a drink. On the house. I poured water, and the green poison turned white. I braced it with vermouth. By now my breath was truly bad, with a mad perfume of anise and blended columbian. The drink was harsh. A mudslide toward oblivian.
He put a finger on my knee. He bent close and whispered: "Her man The Skinner is looking for her, I hear--"
"So?"
He straightened up. Stiffly: "So, Padre. It means nothing."
The Skinner had cut off one of Dante's fingers to obtain, it is told, a ring. So goes the myth. Truth is, The Skinner and the Witch desired the finger to work magick. Thus Dante ended up in a spell box.
The thing that was now Dante laughed nervously and walked away. In the jagged light his black curls shone damp with oil and sweat. Momentarily he and the Witch shared the same smokey cone of illumination. Then he passed on. The Creole woman paused in her playing and put down the violin. She took a seat at a nearby table. Our eyes finally met.
"Hello, Padre."
"Maria."
She chuckled and said, "Crazy man, you know this the worst night for this."
"I wanted to see you."
Then with her best bedroom smile she said, "This is a public place."
